The Bed She Made
by FirstYear
Summary: Eileen Snape is being forced into an arranged marriage before she meets a Muggle who will change her life forever. She does the best she can for a son her husband no longer wants. Complete in 2 Chapters. Done for Hogwarts Online Forum
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

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This was done for Hogwarts Online Forum and is posted as part of a series of chapters, all done by different writers. See _The Beginning of Love _for the rest of the collection.

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**The The Bed She Made**

**1**

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Eileen walked along the pavement keeping her eyes downcast and her arms clasped close to her body, fighting back tears of frustration and disappointment. She had been to all the shops, and had even asked her aunts for a pair of silk stockings, only to receive the same look of sadness and a shake of their heads.

She would be the only girl at the dance with bare legs, if she chose to go at all. It wasn't as if she had a date, she didn't, but she wanted to go anyway. She wanted to dance. She wanted someone to sweep her off her feet, someone who liked her for her, and not only her name. She wanted to be like the other girls who oohed and ahhed and talked about their first kiss, how wonderful it was, how she had melted into her lover's arms and how he had whispered into her ear.

Now, she would look like nothing more than a poor relation, a stupid silly girl that did not even know how to dress properly or was too lazy to care. Madam Malkin had shown her leg oil, and assured her that if applied correctly no one would know the difference. Eileen knew she was lying, lying to make a sale, secretly laughing at the poor little pureblood that would look a fool with oiled legs and pretend stockings.

Before she knew it, she was at the far end of the Alley, and making a quick decision, transfigured her robes into a jumper, walked through The Leaky Cauldron to step out into the streets of London. She knew where to go, she had been to the shops many times, and although her mother had insisted they did not have silk stockings she knew one of the many shops in the area would.

"Not for some time now," the sales clerk cocked an eyebrow at her. "We have tights, if you wear a long dress they may work, or you can just …"

"No. Do you know somewhere else? I've already been everyplace I know of."

"Not since the war heated up. We used to get a few pair now and then, but nothing for a year now. Most of us just use an eyebrow pencil, you know, just draw on the seam."

"Thanks," Eileen said flatly, as she walked outside and worried her lip at the quickly fading sun.

She walked toward the taxi queue as a blast of sirens filled the air. Throwing her hands over her ears, she spun around, seeing lights click off and the city become a blur of rushing late night shoppers, and tenants running from their apartment buildings. Spinning back to the taxis, she watched as the drivers stepped out and started following the rest, across the road and underground.

"Miss?" One of the cabbies grabbed her arm. "Come, this way. It's probably another false alarm, but can't be too sure."

"What? What is happening?"

"You must be new here?" he smirked. "You one of those yanks?"

"Yanks?"

"Yeah, from… where are you from?"

"I live…away…out in the country."

"You don't have air raids?" he asked, looking up and down the street before stepping off the curb, pulling her along behind him.

"No." She tugged against him, making him yank her harder, as he nearly dragged her across the road.

"Well, we do here. Bloody hell, three this week alone."

"Air raid? I…I need to get back."

"What? You live in a fucking convent or something? Yeah, an air raid. Now get your arse down there and shut up."

Eileen stumbled down the steps, guided by men wearing arm- bands and funny hats, hard and round. Once at the bottom of the staircase she turned to run back up, when the taxi driver pushed her forward until he found a place next to the wall.

"Sit," he frowned, pointing to the dirty floor, "could last a few minutes or we may be here all night."

"I can't," she whined, putting her back to the wall and sliding down to the floor. "I'm going to a dance. I have to get ready."

"Dance?" he snorted. "Not around here you ain't. What school around here still has dances?"

"I didn't say it was a school dance." She pouted, folding her arms over her chest.

He laughed and slid down to sit next to her. "With that god awful uniform I'd guess you go to one of those catholic schools. Didn't think they approved of dances."

"It is a … a private school… you wouldn't have heard of it," she sighed. "Guess it doesn't matter anyway."

"There'll be another one," he said more kindly, seeing her face crumble.

"No, there won't be," she sniffed, running her sleeve over her face. "I won't be going back next year. This is my last one."

"You quitting?"

She looked up at him and shook her head, wondering if this Muggle would understand. "No, I…this is my last year…I have to get married."

"Oh," he said flatly, his eyes going to her stomach. "Your boyfriend, is he in the war?"

"I don't have one."

He snapped his eyes up to hers and grinned. "Sorry, I just assumed when you said you _had _to that…well you know."

"No, what?"

"You know." He looked around uncomfortably and squirmed to sit up straighter. "I thought you had a bun in the oven."

"I said I had to get married, not that my folks were going to kill me," she spat.

Eileen looked up with the rest of people in the underground bunker as the sound of lumbering planes and retorts filled the air. She gasped as the ground around her shook, and tried to get to her feet, panicking, knowing they could be trapped, only to have him pull her back down.

"Whoa, girl," he laughed. "Its fine, nothing can get you down here." He put his hand on the top of her head, pushing it down until she was looking at him and not the cracked ceiling.

"Seems we are going to be stuck here a long time," he sighed as she whimpered and sucked in her lower lip, her eyes filling with tears. Gently pulling her up to his lap, he pushed her head down to his shoulder. "Now, I'll go first. My name is Tobias Snape. Yep, not a great name. I would guess yours is better, but we will get to that. Let me tell you about myself and then it's your turn."

She didn't hear the beginning of his story, fighting to hear the planes, learning the sound of sudden silence that came a few seconds before the earth trembled and the dust in the tunnel swirled up in clouds so thick she knew her clothes would be filthy. His voice didn't waiver, the only indication that he too could hear the pending explosion come closer was a gentle tightening of the hold he had on her. She tipped her head up and watched his profile, realizing that he was talking just to calm her.

After a time she relaxed and leaned on his chest, resting her head on his shoulder as her sobs diminished and she could listen to what he said. He had finished school, and tried to … to enlist… she was confused and filed that word in the back of her mind to look up later. His left eardrum had never healed, he told her, tipping his head down and grinning at her. So instead of…enlisting…he came here to drive until the regular cabbies came back from the war and the factory he normally worked at could be repaired.

"Good money in it," he nodded knowingly. "Studied the maps and I can get you from one end of this bloody hell hole to the next faster than any other cabbie out there. Get good tips I do. Now, it's your turn."

She sat up straight, feeling embarrassed at the realization that she had been sitting on a stranger's lap, crying into his neck. Others in the area were beginning to stand and walk toward the stairs. She blushed and slid off his lap, resting on her knees next to him.

"I'm Eileen, Eileen Prince."

"Fine name," he smirked. "It's nice to at least know the name of the girl I just spent the night with."

"Can we go out now?"

"Wait for the all clear," he nodded and stood up, brushing off his trousers, "any minute now."

"How bad do you think it is?"

"Not too, the factories are a ways out. I think they just toss one into us every once in a while to keep us on our toes. But...these? Nah…small ones they were."

"Mum's going to kill me," Eileen said as she jumped up. "I've been out all night and… she is going to kill me."

"We can find a phone."

"She…she doesn't have one."

"Anything close? When I call my mum I leave a message at the grocers."

"No, we…we are too far out," she bit her lip and pulled her jumper close. "I look a mess."

"Eileen, look around, so does everyone else," he said softly, frowning at her. "You really don't know about any of this, do you?"

She shook her head adamantly, feeling ready to cry again and turned away from him as a shrill siren started. Seeing everyone starting out, she ran up the stairs and into the street, knowing that this was the 'all clear' he had spoken of. She fell on her knees as the fresh air filled her lungs, and feeling her hands begin to shake was glad when Tobias squatted down next to her.

"Come on kid, it's over. You're safe now."

"Until my folks … yeah," she staggered to her feet and tried to smile at him. "Thank you, Mr. Snape. I need to…"

"Mr. Snape?" he laughed, full throated and deep. "I am not that much older than you. You make me sound like my father."

"I'm seventeen." She lifted her head proudly, feeling insulted that he should laugh at her. "Furthermore, we have not been properly introduced."

"Well…la-de-da," he sneered at her. "Kind of uppity now that you don't need me."

"I am not." She scowled at him.

"Seventeen, huh?" He stepped back, appraised her body, grinning as he walked around her. "Looks sixteen to me."

"I'll be seventeen next month," she stammered. "And what about you, Mr- you- are-too –uppity-for-me?"

"Never said you were _too _uppity, said you were kind-a-uppity. There's a difference you know."

"I asked you a question." She looked at him defiantly.

"Twenty-four, just about the right age for an almost seventeen. When you _are_ seventeen we could try this again."

"Try what again?" She asked, confused at his words but not his smirk.

"Spending the night together," he said honestly, enjoying the look of shock and surprise on her face. "Seriously, you never did tell me your story."

"I have to get home." She turned to hurry away, hearing him call out to her that he would be at the same place every night until the bloody war ended. She heard his laughter, and wondered if she would have the nerve to come back.

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She had been banished to her room, forbidden to go out for a full week when she had finally made it home. It was only at her mother's insistence that she'd had no choice but to stay until the all clear was given that the fighting and arguing had calmed down.

"After all," she had said, more then a hint of exasperation in her voice, "we couldn't very well have her Apparating in front of a bunch of Muggles."

Now, Eileen sat on the windowsill, her forehead pressed against the glass, wishing she was back in school and that she had never grown old enough to marry. She reached over to her desk and grabbed a piece of parchment, fanning her face with it as she leaned her head back against the window frame. The summer heat had settled over the city, refusing to leave even with the gentle breeze that moved the tree branches and rustled the bushes.

It wasn't that she didn't _want _to get married. She just wanted to find her own husband the way some of the girls at school did. Her mother had acted put out and asked her pointedly who else would want such an unlovely girl as she. Eileen turned back to the window and locked her eyes with the girl in the reflection, and wished that she were beautiful. _Beautiful enough to turn a man's head and want me for more than my name,_ she thought, tipping her chin just enough to see her face in profile and sighed loudly.

"Because you are a Prince!" Her father's angry voice still echoed in her mind.

"Please? Just a year, give me a year to myself, please, Papa. At least give me the summer!"

"What in Merlin's name will change in a few months? He is willing to take you sight unseen and give you children, what more do you want?"

In the end he had relented, allowing a postponement until the holidays, forcing her to write her intended a letter, setting the new date and explaining that with the war raging in Germany she felt unsafe to travel such a distance. She had paced the floor anxiously waiting for the return post, glad and relieved when he had so easily agreed. She reread the missive, holding a small picture he had sent under the parchment, and judged that he wanted this no more than she did and would be enjoying his freedom as she planned to find hers.

She held his picture up to the light and studied his face and eyes. He was a large man, as old as her father, but his eyes seemed kinder, his smile…real. She suddenly thought of this large beefy man leaning over her in bed and gasped, dropping the picture and running downstairs.

"I have shopping to do," she muttered as she yanked her handbag off the hook by the back door.

"What do you need that for," her mother nodded to the handbag, her face growing hard. "I told you to stay away from the Muggle cities."

"I wanted to look at lace, all they have in Diagon is that old fashioned stuff…I want real lace for my wedding. I…I thought something from Germany may be fitting."

"With the war, there may not be anything worthwhile," he mother said, eyeing her suspiciously.

"I know…then I thought of sewing those little pearls across the bodice. Not real pearls, but they have tiny little beads that look the same. It shouldn't cost much."

Her mother nodded slowly, remembering the picture she had seen in a magazine. "Get extra, it will take more than you think."

"Sure," Eileen muttered as she headed to the door, wondering what time Tobias started work, or if he would have passengers and be unable to talk.

She waited by the queue, feeling the eyes of the other drivers watching her, knowing that some of them had been here the night of the air raid and had seen her in tears. She leaned against the wall of a near by building and waited until she saw him drive by and pull into the back of the line.

"Hey, Eileen," he shouted as he rolled down his window. "Over here."

She hugged her handbag to her chest and hurried to the curbside, bending over and peeking in the window at him. "Did you mean it? You know, when you said I should come see you?"

"Sure." He grinned at her and then reached across the front seat and opened the door. "Hop in. You can sit here 'til I'm up again."

She smiled widely and slid in next to him, sitting sideways to see him better. "So, Tobias, since we are on a first name basis you may call me Elle."

"Thought you would be an old married lady by now," he joked, quirking his eyebrow at her and grinning.

"I don't want to talk about that," she said firmly. "I want to tell you my story now. You said it would be my turn."

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "Just don't go telling me some shite. I don't play games."

"Games?"

"You know, don't go trying to impress me with how smart you are, or all the important people you know, or stuff like that." He turned his face from her and spat out the window, sitting up straight and turning to sit sideways as well. "If I want a bitch to tell me lies I can get one on any corner."

"I …" she stammered, and reached for the door handle, ready to leave.

"Hey, I didn't mean it that way. It's just since I came to the city…girls are … you know, different down here. They tell me what they think I want to hear and then put the hit on me."

"I…I don't understand," she sighed. "Maybe I should leave."

"The hit, you know, wanting me to buy them stuff."

"I don't want anything," she said softly. "Well, maybe … just a day out. You know, away from my folks. I just thought I would look you up."

"You are a strange one," he laughed, draping one arm over the back of the seat, digging out a pack of cigarettes with the other. "Fag?"

"No, no thank you." She watched him tap one out of the package, stick it between his teeth and then strike a match, using one hand, and take a deep drag.

"So, what did you have in mind?"

"I don't know…just…talk I guess."

"I get off work at seven. How about stopping for a drink or two?"

"As long as it isn't underground during an air raid I think I may like that," she said in a rush, glad that he was not sending her away. "I'm not much of a drinker."

"If I thought you were I wouldn't ask you out," he said evenly. "Now, run off, got to get back to work and there are a couple of fares up there."

"Sure," she said, opening the door and stepping out. "Should I meet you back here?"

"Yeah," he said, his eyes travelling down her body, "put on something nice."

She nodded and closed the door, watching the taxi pull forward and two businessmen in suits glance at her before jumping in the back, and then watched the black car pull away from the curb.

She had time to finish her shopping and to find a secluded place to transfigure her clothes. Feeling her neck begin to turn red, she stifled a grin as she thought of the tall, dark haired almost stranger that wanted to take her out for drinks.

_Drinks_, she thought_, Merlin, now what?_ Suddenly feeling younger than her seventeen years, she started toward the shop, determined that she could do this.

She bought the beads she had come for, tucked them in her handbag and crossed the road to gaze at the summer frocks that were draped over slim bodied manikins in the shop's window. The heavy black drapes, pulled to the side, served as a reminder of what could happen in this world. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she glanced anxiously up to the sky, feeling exposed and alone, wondering if the sirens started…would he come.

In an act of bravery, so alien to her, she lifted her chin and pulled open the door. If she bought the dress she would always have it, even in Germany, married to a man that would not care, she would always have a reminder of this one day. Even at her cold winter wedding, she would have this.

_Five months_, she thought as she spun in front of the mirror, feeling the full skirt swirl and whisper against her bare legs, _five months more_.

"It is quite lovely on you," the sales lady smiled. "I would go a size smaller. You can get away with it you know."

"I wish I had stockings," she sighed, looking over her shoulder into the full-length mirror.

"Are you wearing it tonight?"

"Yes, I … I want to wear it out. You can put my old clothes in a bag, but… I'll try on the smaller one."

"Step up," she pointed to a chair, "let me paint on your stockings."

Eileen felt all grown up as she sauntered to the taxi queue, seeing Tobias leaning against the boot, talking to his replacement. Her breath caught as he saw her, and stood up straight, flicking his cigarette butt into the street and smirking at her. Running to meet her in the middle of the street, he took her arm and led her back to the curb.

"Wow," he whispered, leaning down to her ear. "Seems that little schoolgirl went home."

"You like it?"

"Yes, yes I do." He licked his lips and looked down the street, seeing a small pub and started pulling her toward it. "I was going to take you someplace else, but with you looking like this I don't think so."

She would later think of the walk to the pub, how her hand had been tucked into his elbow, how his eyes had flickered from the pavement to her, the gentle way he had squeezed her hand and the way his face had darkened in what she had assumed was desire.

In the coming years, when things got too much for her to handle, she would remember the way he had slid into the booth next to her, his hand under the table as he had stroked and kneaded her leg and repeatedly leaned down to kiss the outer shell of her ear. She would remember his smell, sweaty and sweet, smoky and harsh, and the way he had apologised for not taking time to shower and change before their date.

When she held an ice pack to her cheek, to take down the swelling from one more blow from his beefy hand, roughened and strengthened by his work in the mill, she would remember how he had tenderly carried her upstairs and had laid her down.

However, what she would remember the most, years later as she buried him in a pauper's grave, north of Spinner's End, was the way she had clung to him. Skin against skin, her nails digging into his back, crying out her love for him and the way he had only closed his eyes, lowered his head and had come to completion without repeating her words.


	2. Chapter 2

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**The Bed She Made**

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When Eileen lost the first baby, her little boy, she had stayed in bed a week, not wanting to get up, wondering what it would be like to die. Her mother had refused to come and had written a letter saying that Eileen deserved what she got, that she had asked for it and brought it on herself by turning her back on her family and heritage. Tobias didn't know what to do. He had fixed cold ham sandwiches and hot tea, set them on the nightstand and had gone to sleep on the couch.

In the mornings, as she had lain in bed, listening to the noises in the kitchen, knew he was getting ready for work and dreaded the day to come. Rolling to face the wall, she had waited for him to come and tell her good bye before leaving. Not wanting to see him, afraid of his caustic tongue and that he would put the blame on her as her mother had. Hearing the front door open, and then the sharp slam as it closed behind him, she had cried because he had not.

A month later, Parson Rivers had come from the church and told her it was her wifely duty to get on with life, to put her trust in God and not to question His decision. She had watched his back as he had walked down the pavement and wanted to throw a hex at him, finding him pompous and overbearing.

Eileen had kept her secret. Hiding her wand on the top shelf of the cupboard, afraid that if her husband discovered her secret, things would get much worse. As if things were not bad enough, she had thought. He had only been able to grab a day's work at the time, sometimes going as far as the docks. They had spoken of the mill reopening, how he would make enough to support them when it did, and enough to move from this god damned place.

At first, before they had married, she had planned to tell him. Then, when her parents had thrown her out for refusing a forced marriage, she had run to him, having no place else to go, no one else that would accept her. He had taken her in, promising that things would work out, and she had pushed the conversation to the back of her mind only anxious to please him. When they moved to a flat north of the city, she had been confused and lost. Not knowing the shops, how to ride on the buses, how to keep house, she had tried to broach the subject, tired to tell him who and what she was, not to give an excuse for her lack of knowledge, but to give an explanation. He laughed at her, and told her if she wanted to learn magic tricks to do her work first, to learn how to be a 'real' woman and to stop her foolishness.

He had scoffed at her years later when she tried to broach the subject again. Told her if she wanted to act like a fool, she could go right ahead. She could dress in black and go live with the beatniks and street people in London. He laughed whenever there was a show on the telle about the Wicca celebrations on All Hallows Eve, and asked her why she had ever been so stupid as to think all that tripe was real. That was when she knew she would have to wait, to wait until things got better and he didn't feel the pressure of making ends meet to convince him of the true extent f the magic.

She couldn't explain it, not when he called her a stupid bint, or a worthless cow that was never satisfied. Not when he had been disgusted at her displays of levitation and Accios and told her if the neighbours ever found out he would make sure she never left the house again. He had thrown all her clothes, all but two dresses, in the bin and told her to keep her arse home. He laughed at her when she said she would leave, that she could find a job and support herself. Eileen knew he was right, even as she had cried that he was wrong. She could never make her own way in this world and was unwanted in hers.

When they got into the council housing at Spinner's End, with a promise of a steady income, she had spent the night in tears instead of the happiness she had thought the move would bring. He had used her with no thought to kindness that first night, no thought to what she needed, only turned her over and ordered her on her knees. She had fought against him, pleading with him to love her, not to treat her as he did and had earned an open-handed slap for her trouble. More and more often he would come home drunk and take her roughly, grunting and pushing into her then rolling over and falling asleep without even cleaning himself, and demanding she lay still and shut up.

At the beginning, she would comb her hair, letting it ride loose on her shoulders, wanting him to see the girl she had been. Every day she would see his sneer as he walked in the door and looked at their shabby existence. She knew he blamed her. Blamed her when she could not to do the simplest of jobs to bring in a few extra pounds or even keep the house the way he wanted.

The second baby would have been a girl. The midwife had spirited its lifeless body away before she saw its face. Tobias had looked at her, disgusted that she could not even carry a child to term before heading down to Sloans for a round of drinks and the compassionate companionship of his friends, leaving her home alone. After that, she almost gave up hope that their lives would ever improve.

It was years later, when she received the letter in the daily post. She opened it with her hands shaking, casting glances out the window to make sure Tobias was not walking home from the bus stop and read about her parents death, the bills they left and her merge inheritance. An old cherry wood sideboard arrived in a lorry later that week. The old flatbed made enough noise to alert the whole neighbourhood and had the other wives craning their heads and gossiping like old fishmongers. She had run her hand over its smooth worn surface and remembered how it had sat in the dinning room laden with food and could only push it against the wall, knowing she would never have friends and family gathered around it as her mother had.

Tobias had laughed when he came home, tired and worn out from working in the mill all day. He had walked around the sideboard shaking his head and scolding her for putting on airs and how much room it took up in the already too small house. Eileen begged him to let it stay, and finally won a victory when she sobbed out the fact that she carried their third child. A child that was born uneventfully one cold spring night while Tobias sat with a full tankard down at Sloans, to drunk to walk home on his own when news came that the baby had lived.

He had been proud at first. So proud that he was likely to sit on the step just to watch the youngster in the carriage as Eileen pushed him up and down the pavements, claiming that the fresh air would help him sleep. So proud that he bragged when his son took his first step, when he leaned to feed himself and when he said his first word. Proud enough to sit at the kitchen table at teatime, with his son in a highchair, and eat as a family. Proud enough not to yell at her about the condition of the house and to take her tenderly to bed.

Eileen had thought now they were a family at last and happily looked forward to each day. Her joy lasted only a few months when one night as they sat eating in the kitchen, a dish skittered off the table and broke on the floor. Eileen was quick to point out the spilled gravy, the slick surface, the uneven table legs, as she got down on her hands and knees and began to clean up the mess. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she fought back her tears, her hands shaking so badly she could hardly hold the scrub brush.

"It's a fucking dish." He had glowered at her, disgusted to see tears over a chipped bowl. "Take care of the boy, he needs to eat." He turned back to see his son peer over the edge of the highchair's plastic tray at his mother, a spoon in each hand and a pout on his lips. "Bitch, get your arse up here and feed him."

"As soon as I'm done," she snipped. "You want to slip on this mess?"

He leaned down far enough to fist her hair, drag up her head and backhand her. "You talk to me like that again and I'll show you who runs this house."

"Not in front of the boy," she had cried and twisted away, feeling his hand tighten in her hair as he roughly dragged her up and pushed her back into the counter.

He lifted his hand to strike her, his fingers clenched in anger, when the table they had been sitting at moments before tipped over, the uneaten tea and broken shards of china and glass mixing on the floor.

"What the fuck?" he said, releasing her and turning to survey the damage, giving her enough time to push past him and yank the child up into her arms.

"You touch him…you touch him and I'll kill you," she hissed.

"Fucking freaks," he spat and turned on his heel, climbing the stairs to their bedroom and yanking open the cupboard door screaming obscenities.

She had followed him, pleading with him not to do what she knew he would. Pleaded with him not to snap her wand and throw in into the bin. Begged him to understand and let her show him what she could do. He had known she had a wand, had known she used it for her parlour tricks of levitation and Accio, but now…now he knew it was so much more. She held the boy on her hip with one arm, grabbing his hand with the other, trying to bat the hatbox out of his hand. Pleading, begging, promising, her voice hitching with sobs when he pushed her to the floor, she could only wrap her arms around the boy and cry.

After that he didn't speak of his son, didn't tell stories down at Sloans or bring the boy sweets hidden in his pocket to be pulled out and given amongst squeals and laughter. After that day in the kitchen, she would fed the boy before his father came home, and put him in his room hoping he would play with his stuffed animals and not cry.

When the boy was old enough to spend the day in school and Tobias had taken the night shift at the mill, she was relieved that she could be up and out of the house, doing the marketing or some errand, before he came home. She would put a plate back on the warmer and hurry out before he arrived, wanting to spend as little time as possible with him. On occasion he would wait for her, furious that she was not home to perform her wifely duties and smack her face, pushing her up the stairs ahead of him.

It wasn't long after the episode in the kitchen when he stopped giving her money, doing the marketing himself, refusing her even a few coin for her pocket or money for the household. She held her chin high as she walked down to the church and picked up a sack of clothes for the needy when the boy had outgrown what he had. She would tug the ill fitting clothing over his head, smile thinly and send him off to school, knowing that the other kids would tease him but unable to do anything to stop it.

When the boy was eight, Eileen waited until Tobias fell into a drunken stupor, dug his wallet out of his pocket and took what money he had. Rushing to the train station, they had almost made it to London before Tobias woke, furious to find them gone. He reported her to the police, and claimed her an unfit mother, mental unbalanced and prone to self mutilation as evidenced by her many trips to the local clinic, himself as the long suffering husband and father. That was the last time she dared to run, that was when she knew he could kill his son to keep his control over her.

The boy would sit on the floor and hunch over day old newspapers and old magazines his mother gave him instead of toys and games that she had no money for and his father would not buy. Sometimes he would cut out the pictures and put them under his bed, later arranging them in order of some story he had learned.

Eileen cut scrapes of paper and drew pictures on them. Then sitting on the black and white chequered kitchen floor, she taught him to play chess, all the while telling him stories of witches and warlocks and great feats of magic. Soon she began attaching names to the pieces, real names that he would some day know. She taught him the importance of never being the pawn and the hidden strength of the knight. She taught him to control the ranks and files, to always watch the diagonals, but never...never to take his eyes off the Queen and no matter the cost, to protect the King.

When he was ten, she went with him and the other students on a school trip to the Tower of London. Seizing her chance, she hurried to Diagon Alley, entering through the Leaky Cauldron and all but ran into Knockturn Alley. Here, she remembered, they sold used books, old and tattered, unlike the fine leather bindings of Diagon. The shopkeeper shrugged and accepted her Muggle money and handed over two books from the bottom shelf.

She taught her son secretly, taught him the old pronunciation of Latin, telling him he would not be using the new corrupted dialect taught in his school. She taught him how to hold a wand, and proper manners, how not to speak with his fathers slurred inflections, and the way to hold his head, high and proud. By the time his Hogwarts letter came, she could only hope he was strong enough.

"Severus," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his brow, "I'll tell him, don't worry. But you have to stand up to him when he says no. I'll be right there, but you have to do it. If you start crying and run off he'll win."

"He'll be mad." The boy lay still, as if his very movement in the bed would start his father's anger.

"It's okay, don't you go worrying. We have to leave at nine to catch the train. I'll wait until breakfast to tell him, he won't have time to do much about it." She smiled at him thinly. "The important thing is that you do this. You do this and don't you ever come back."

"But, Mum, the hols and…"

"Oh, now…I didn't mean that, I mean when you are all grown and big." She smiled and pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in and kissing him on the top of his head. "It's a grand place you are going. You just be careful, you know how your Dad is. There's lots like him, people that don't like magic, people who will hold it against you that your father is…different."

"Mum? Who will help you? You know, when Dad gets mad?"

"Don't you worry about me," she gently chided him, "you just worry about your grades and show them that a Prince, even a half-blood Prince is just as good as them."

The next few years she watched as her son grew and her husband became older, tried and worn down from his work in the mill. She thought of the Healers, that all he needed was a potion, a quick trip to her world, a touch of magic. Sometimes in the mornings she would sit across the table from him and sip her tea, thinking back to the first time he had leaned down to kiss her ear and wondered what had gone so terribly wrong. Then, he would push his plate away, and scowl at her before he left for work and all the years of open hand slaps and closed fisted hits would crash down on her.

Her son came home less and less, until his last year in school when he politely told her he would be spending the hols with a friend and that his summer was already planned. She had been proud of him the last time he had come home, seeing the way he turned his back and walked away from Tobias, no longer cringing as his father threw out venomous words at his back. She had smiled and cupped his cheek in her hand, nodding her understanding as he had swept out of the back door, walking away and not coming back.


End file.
